


the months after

by jonnyluvssherlock



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Bottom John, Happy Ending, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mild Smut, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide Attempt, Supernatural Elements, The Fall - Freeform, john is in a lot of emotional pain, talking about drug use, talking about suicide, this deals with the fall and sherlock's 'death', toplock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-13
Updated: 2016-03-13
Packaged: 2018-05-26 10:46:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,272
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6235636
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonnyluvssherlock/pseuds/jonnyluvssherlock
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock is dead, or is he?  That question plagues John in the months after The Fall as he comes to grips with how the loss of the man he loves affects his powers sending him into a downward spiral that no one can save him from.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the months after

**Author's Note:**

> this fic deals with John having a mental breakdown and trying to kill himself there is a lot of talk about mental health and suicide. if any of that is a trigger for you do not read. there are also some supernatural element.

**the fall**

 

 

Sherlock was dead, but he was also alive. John knew he was alive, just as he knew Moriarty was dead. He did not have to see a body to know; he felt it. John’s unnatural empathy had let him see through the lie Sherlock had shown him. John had felt Sherlock’s mind, vibrant and alive, being pulling away from him as he clung to his wrist.

 

 

He had expected Sherlock to come to him, to say that he was all right, but, instead, they had showed him a fake corpse lying on a slab. On the slab beside it was Moriarty, of that he was sure. He had heard Moriarty’s mind go quiet on the roof.

 

 

John could feel Molly’s mind behind him, she was upset with herself for lying to him. John took her hand as he passed her and felt that she knew something about Sherlock. It angered him that Sherlock had trusted her and not him.

 

 

John met Mycroft in the hall, another liar. He was better at hiding it, but John could feel that he was also in on Sherlock’s plan. John did not invite him up to the flat when he dropped John off.  He felt sick watching Mycroft pretend to grieve.

 

 

Inside, Mrs. Hudson, who he realized was in the dark as much as he was, tried to talk to him, but John was tired, he needed to sleep. Sherlock would contact him soon; he had to. So, John passed her by and went up to the flat.

 

 

It looked the same as it had when he had been led out in handcuffs just over twenty-four hours ago. John could not think of eating, so he washed his hands and face, stripped down to his pants and got into his and Sherlock’s bed.

 

 

If he were lucky, Sherlock would be there with him when he woke up.

 

 

\-----

**3 months after the fall**

 

 

Sherlock never came. John had felt him when he had gone to visit the grave with Mrs. Hudson, but by then, John had started to believe his gift might not be as foolproof as he thought. It had never let him down before, but he had searched the graveyard and there had been no Sherlock. A week after the incident, he had gone back to therapy and been put on a high-dosed anti-depressant.

 

 

At first, John continued to go out, but there was press hanging around the flat and it made his head throb, feeling all their emotions. Mrs. Hudson started doing his shopping. With no job and no friends who wanted to see him, John spent his days in bed, except for the Friday afternoons when he went to his appointments.

 

 

He did not tell his therapist that he thought his partner had faked his death. He knew he would sound crazy if he did. He would also have to explain his gift. How he had been born with an abnormal empathic ability that let him feel other peoples’ moods and tell if they were lying. John had built the skill up over the years so that he could tell people apart by their emotional signatures. He knew he could find Sherlock in the dark; he had done it in Dartmouth.

 

 

At his therapy sessions, John talked about simple things. How much he missed Sherlock. How hurt he was that people thought he was a liar. Like his last time with Ella, he only ever scratched the surface. His prescription dosage went up, and John’s view on life went down.

 

 

\-----

**6 months after the fall**

 

 

Sometimes, John would wake up in a different part of the flat then he had gone to sleep in. Other times, he would catch his mind drifting back in time to happier days, as if he were dreaming while he was awake.

 

 

Mrs. Hudson started bringing up tea in the morning and sticking around for a chat. John would listen as best he could, but he would often miss huge parts as his mind wandered off. Whenever he asked about the rent, she would wave her hand and he would feel guilt wash over her. He had a feeling Mycroft had something to do with it.

 

 

John wandered out into the front room in the middle of the afternoon; he was not sure what day it was. His eyes settled on the wall by the door. He pressed his head against it. If walls had emotions, this one would tell a very interesting story. John concentrated on breathing as his mind drifted away from him into a more pleasant place.

 

 

**2 months before the fall**

 

 

John climbed out of the shower and noticed a menacing force making its way up the stairs to the flat. He dropped the towel he had been drying his hair with, put on his dressing gown, and grabbed the cricket bat as he waited just inside the door.

 

 

When his ‘intruder’ was two steps down, he picked up Sherlock’s emotional signature. He put the bat down and opened the door just as Sherlock reached for it.

 

 

“What’s wrong?” John asked, reaching up and pushing Sherlock’s hair out of his eyes.

 

 

Sherlock’s eyes widened in surprised as he took in John’s damp, undressed state.

John could see an idea forming by the way Sherlock looked at him. Anger merged with lust and John knew what Sherlock wanted.

 

 

“I want you against the wall.”

 

 

John smiled, “Kiss me first.”

 

 

Sherlock smiled back and untied John’s dressing gown. John let Sherlock slip it off his shoulders and watched his hungry gaze as it pooled around his feet.   He took John’s face into his hands. He kissed him softly, just the slightest press of his lips on John’s. Then he deepened the kiss, moving John back against the wall.

 

 

John unbuttoned Sherlock’s overcoat and reached inside, grasping his waist. He pulled Sherlock as close to him as possible.

 

 

Sherlock hummed and moved down to John’s neck while they both helped Sherlock out of his Belstaff. John got Sherlock out of his shirt and jacket while Sherlock layered several love bites on John’s neck and kissed him to the point that his lips were red and swollen.

 

 

“Mine.” Sherlock smiled, licking up John’s neck. John felt pride in that statement, but after all that had happened between them, some lingering doubt. This was, perhaps, the reason for Sherlock’s need to mark him so often. It let anyone who saw John know he had an enthusiastic lover.

 

 

“Turn around?” Sherlock whispered.

 

 

John pressed one more kiss to Sherlock’s lips and nodded. He braced himself on the wall. Sherlock was gone for a moment, but he returned and placed a hand on John’s lower back before he slid it further down.

 

 

They often took their time with this. Sometimes, Sherlock would finger him to orgasm and then fuck him while he was coming down from his high. It was something they both enjoyed.

 

 

Today, Sherlock was being efficient. Opening him up quickly, giving him just enough pleasure to sooth, but not enough to get off on. When John felt Sherlock stand from the kneeling position he had taken behind him, he knew his wait was over.

 

 

John could sense how much Sherlock wanted him. He listened to Sherlock unbuckling his belt and looked over his shoulder to see him watching him.

 

 

Sherlock bit John’s shoulder. “You’re so good to me, you know that? Better than I deserve.”

 

 

John kept his eyes on Sherlock as he felt the first intrusion. Even after they had done this so many times, it always made John’s senses feel like he was on fire. He was getting the pleasurable physical intrusion that he longed for as well as the empathic overload of his partner. He could feel everything Sherlock could feel right then, as if he was Sherlock. It had never been as intense with any other partner, but he had never been as connected with any of them as he was with Sherlock.

 

 

As Sherlock slid into him, he was overwhelmed by how much Sherlock loved him. How much he feared John did not love him back the same way, and how much he worried about the future. These feelings were not expressed in words, but John had long ago learned to decode Sherlock’s emotions.

 

 

“I love you.” John murmured.

 

 

Sherlock’s balls smacked into John’s. They both breathed out, leaning closer against each other, Sherlock’s breath ghosting across the back of John’s neck. They stayed still for a moment as Sherlock pulled out slowly and began thrusting shallowly.

 

 

“I love you.” John murmured again as another wave of emotions came over him.

 

 

“I know.”

 

 

Sherlock put his arms around John’s chest pulling him away from the wall. John put his hand over Sherlock’s as Sherlock sped up, pushing in and out of him harder and faster until John’s knees quaked.

 

 

John closed his eyes and leaned his head onto Sherlock’s shoulder; even when they were open, all he saw were stars. Sherlock pushed into him harder and faster and John had to reach out for the wall to balance the both of them.

 

 

“John.”

 

 

“Hmm.” He was so far gone that he could hardly speak.

 

 

“I’m so close, “Sherlock gasped, “touch yourself.”

 

 

John reached down and jerked himself to completion. It did not take much with his senses already so overloaded. He was starting to sag when he felt Sherlock cum inside him. John sobbed in relief.

 

 

“I love you.” John breathed.

 

 

**6 months after the fall**

 

 

“John!!!”

 

 

John looked up from where he had apparently fallen to the floor. Lestrade was standing over him with his phone out, radiating fear.

 

 

“Relax, I’m fine.” John got to his feet, made his way over to Sherlock’s chair, and sat down in it.

 

 

“Are you?” Lestrade looked around the room, but seemed unable to take the other armchair. He eventually sat himself on the coffee table.

 

 

“Is this guilt?”

 

 

Lestrade looked hurt, which should have bothered him, but he remembered the faces of all the police officers from the night of Sherlock’s arrest.   Mycroft had CTTV footage and gave him stills of everyone. Guilt at John’s emotional downfall had prompted him to do so, but John had been thankful nonetheless.

 

 

“Are you going to your appointments still, John?”

 

 

“Yes and taking my medication.” John glared at him. “Should I not be going outside? Would it be better for everyone if I went somewhere else?”

 

 

“No.”

 

 

“Or have I caused a scene?” John had so much missing time these days that he might have done something he did not remember.

 

 

Lestrade started radiating melancholy, and John realized something about him was reminding him of Sherlock, but what? Then it hit him. He must look like he was on drugs.

 

 

“Before you ask, I’m taking my medication as prescribed.”

 

 

Lestrade’s eyes widened, but he controlled his face and stood to tower over John. “From what I’ve heard, you’re pretty out of it these days. How do you know you’re getting the right amount and not taking too much?”

 

 

“Because, Mrs. Hudson handles all my drugs. She keeps them somewhere in her flat and brings them to me with tea.” John glared up at Lestrade. “You can go tell Mycroft I’m fine.”

 

 

“I didn’t come here because of him, John.”

 

 

“I know he sent you.” They stared each other down until Lestrade sighed to show he had conceded defeat. “Why now? Six months, and hardly a word.”

 

 

Lestrade looked at him, slightly embarrassed.

 

 

“Your job, I get it.” John curled himself into ball much like Sherlock used to. “Now you’ve come for what you needed, I want to be left alone.”

 

 

Lestrade watched him for a moment before nodding. “You can call me if you need anything, you know.”

 

 

“I won’t.”

 

 

Lestrade watched him again, and then sighed and left.

 

 

\-----

**11 months after the fall**

 

 

John awoke screaming. He had been dreaming about the fall again, watching Sherlock hurtle down towards the ground, unable to stop him. John shot upright in bed and looked around. He was alone and the sun was coming through the blinds, letting him know it was day. He looked down and saw he was wearing one of Sherlock’s shirts. He had lost so much weight the past few months that he was swimming in the fabric.

 

 

John calmed himself and rolled out of bed. In the kitchen, he found a half-drunk cup of cold tea. John could half-remember Mrs. Hudson bring him his medication that morning. He opened the fridge and found it empty. He closed it again and drank the cold tea. It was disgusting, but he could not find it in himself to care.

 

 

He moved to Sherlock’s chair and sat down, pressing his face into the leather, trying to smell its owner. All he smelled was himself. His stomach churned and he thought about the last time he had eaten. He could not remember when that was. He checked that he was wearing trousers and headed down to Mrs. Hudson’s flat. He knocked, but there was no answer. On the ground level of the flat, it was harder to shut out the minds of the people passing by. Speedy’s was full and all the people inside were overloading his brain.

 

 

He tried the handle and found it unlocked. Curious, he pushed his field out, searching for her. He found her next door with Mrs. Turner. He let himself in like he had a hundred times before. He went straight for her fridge and found a plate with his name on it. Picking it up, he headed for the door when he saw a box sitting on the back corner of her counter. He lifted the lid and inside was his medication.

 

 

He could just give up. It was not as if he had anything to live for. He took the pills, forgetting the food and went back to his flat. He tuned into Mrs. Hudson again and gauged how long her conversation with Mrs. Turner would last. He figured he had about two hours to follow through with his gradually forming plan.

 

 

He went to the kitchen and got a glass of water before retreating to his bedroom (he could no longer call it his and Sherlock’s). He took the pills quickly and lay back. If he were lucky, it would all be over soon.

 

 

\-----

 

**1 year later (23 months after the fall)**

 

 

Sherlock was escorted from his private plane to Mycroft’s townhouse. After being led in though the back door, he was ushered into his brother’s home office. Mycroft was sitting behind his desk, looking through a stack of paper, Anthea stood next to him, her face in her cell phone.

 

He knew better than to expect a warm welcome. He was saving that for John. He sat in one of the chairs in front of his brother’s desk and waited for Mycroft to finish and for Anthea to leave.

 

 

“Welcome home, brother mine.” Mycroft gave him a tight smile.

 

 

“If you were so busy, I could have met John first. Where is he?”

 

 

Mycroft did not respond.

 

 

“You did tell him I was coming back? Prepare him for the next step?” He shook his head.

 

 

Mycroft folded his hands on his desk, “Sherlock, he wasn’t in a position to be told anything.”

 

 

Fear crept into Sherlock’s heart. “What do you mean?”

 

 

Mycroft sighed. “A year ago, he tried to kill himself.”

 

 

Sherlock shot to his feet.

 

 

“Mrs. Hudson found him in time, but he was unfit to live on his own anymore. I had to place him in a hospital.”

 

 

“You mean a mental hospital.” Cold sweat broke out over his brow. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

 

 

Mycroft raised an eyebrow at him.

 

 

“Of course, you did not want to ruin the mission. You let him suffer and did nothing?”

 

 

“No, _you_ let him suffer.” Mycroft said calmly. “ _You_ choose not to include him in your plans. _You_ left him behind, and now _you_ have to reap what you sow. Don’t blame _me_ for _your_ choices.”

 

 

Sherlock slumped into the chair behind him. “Is he ok?”

 

 

“He hasn’t said a word since it happened. He just stares at the wall.”

 

 

“I want to see him.”

 

 

“I don’t think that’s wise.”

 

 

“If you ever want my help again, you will take me to him!”

 

 

They glared at each other for a moment before Mycroft gave in. At the hospital they were led in through a back entrance and up to a locked unit. Sherlock had gone alone to John’s room, hoping things were not as bad as his brother had alluded.

 

 

He found John sitting in a chair by the window. He was rail thin, and his hair had grown out over his eyes. He looked like the living dead. Sherlock’s heart broke looking at him.   How could he have done this to the man he loved? He pulled up a chair and sat next to him.

 

 

“John.”

 

 

There was no response.

 

 

“John it’s me.” He reached over and took John’s hand.

 

 

Slowly he felt John’s hand move under his own. He watched John’s eyes drift from the windows to their hands then up to Sherlock’s face. John’s eyes looked as if they were looking through him at first then slowly Sherlock though he saw recognition. Sherlock smiled at him.

 

 

“John.”

 

 

Tears formed in John’s eyes and he let out and ungodly wail. It quickly turned into a scream of terror. He stayed perfectly still his hand caught under Sherlock’s, his eyes filling with fear.

 

 

A nurse burst into the room and removed Sherlock, yelling at him for upsetting the patient. He stood for several long minutes outside John’s door, watching the nurse try to calm him down. A second nurse arrived and Sherlock was dragged down the hall. John’s screams echoing in his ears.

 

 

With Mycroft’s help he was permitted to return. He worked with Mycroft to locate Sebastian Moran, the final piece in Moriarty’s web, and every two days he would spend a few hours siting in John’s room. The second and third visit went as badly as the first. But by the fourth, John had calmed down, a bit

 

 

He still didn’t seem pleased to see Sherlock. His whole body would shudder or twitch as Sherlock first entered the room and he would often cry. John never spoke and would pull his body away if Sherlock tried to touch him. Lost as to what to do, Sherlock fell back on trying to impress him. He told him about his adventures over the past two years. Told him how he had taken apart Moriarty’s web. Occasionally, John responded with a jerk of the hand mostly to certain names, or places.

 

 

Days turned into weeks and while Sherlock was successful in trapping Moran and clearing his name, it meant little to him knowing how he had ruined John. After his name had been cleared, he moved back to Baker Street and took up his old work. People flocked to see him, the genius returned from the dead.

 

 

Molly and Lestrade had both heard about John. He saw guilt at not taking care of John better when he talked to them. It took him a while, but he finally worked out that John’s breakdown had been a long time coming. Mrs. Hudson told him about how John had cut himself off from everyone. How he had hardly left the flat or spoke to anyone. Sherlock was angry with Mycroft for letting it get as bad as it had, but he was more angry with himself. He should have told John.

 

 

\-----

 

 

**6 months after Sherlock’s return (28 months after the fall)**

 

 

Sherlock took a deep breath before he pushed open the door to John’s room. He plastered a smile on his face though he felt more like crying. John hadn’t improved in the past six months and the doctors didn’t expect him to. After six months of screaming, flinching, and being stared at with terrified eyes, Sherlock had hit his limit. He would visit John one more time to say goodbye then he would have to put John in his past.

 

 

He took the seat next to John and looked out the window. All he could see was the grey sky and the building across the street. How John could stare out it all day he didn’t know.

 

 

“I came to say goodbye.” He looked at John’s profile but saw no reaction. “It’s selfish of me but I can’t do this anymore. I have to live in the present.” Still no reaction, Sherlock sighed and stood up. As he turned he felt something touch his hand and looked back to see’s John’s hand gripping his own. He was still facing the window, so Sherlock couldn’t see his expression.

 

 

“John?”

 

 

John’s squeezed his hand.

 

 

Sherlock returned to John’s side and knelt by his chair. “Give me a sign, anything, and I’ll stay. Please.” Sherlock waited for five minutes, but nothing happened. He sighed and rose to leave. He was half way across the room when he heard a soft voice call back to him.

 

 

“Idiot.”

 

 

Sherlock turned again and watched the back of John’s head.

 

 

“Say it again.”

 

 

“Idiot.” John said a little louder this time.

 

 

Sherlock laughed for joy. “Yes, I suppose I am.”

 

 

\-----

 

 

John finally improved in the following weeks. His first request was to go home, which Sherlock was happy to grant. When they were back at Baker Street, John seemed more relaxed, more himself. It wasn’t all easy. John would wake up in the night screaming and nothing Sherlock did could calm him. If we didn’t wake screaming, he would come down from his room (he hadn’t wanted to share a bed with Sherlock) to make sure Sherlock was still there. John had been home two weeks and they still had hardly touched. He didn’t scream if Sherlock touched him, but it was clear he didn’t like it.

 

 

\-----

 

 

John had gone to bed hours ago leaving Sherlock to work on his experiment. It was half past midnight when Sherlock heard the sound of John’s feet slowly making their way down the stairs to the kitchen.

 

 

“I’m still here.” He called out.

 

 

John’s feet stopped for thirty seconds, then started again. Sherlock watched John come into the kitchen and turn the kettle on. He continued with his work while he watched John prepare tea out of the corner of his eyes. When a mug was set in front of him, he looked up and smiled.

 

 

“Thanks.”

 

 

John nodded and sat in the chair across from him.

 

 

“Why didn’t you tell me about your plan?”

 

 

Sherlock froze, mug sitting against his lips. “I thought I was protecting you.”

 

 

John’s eyes met his.

 

 

“I knew you were alive the whole time.”

 

 

The air rushed out of Sherlock’s lungs.

 

 

“I waited for you to come to me. To ask for my help.” John scratched behind his ear. “At first I was angry that you had trusted Molly and Mycroft but not me. Then, I started to wonder if you ever loved me.” He sighed and looked at the table. “I thought maybe I was mad thinking you were alive. The walls I had built up to protect my mind failed me and I ended up with a barrage of thoughts and emotions that drove me mad. I wanted it to end. So-“

 

 

John stopped as if unwilling to say the words.

 

 

“Then, they put me in that hospital, which only drove me more insane. All those people and their pain was in my head.” John shook his head and looked up. “Did you love me? I thought you did, but then people who love you don’t do what you did.”

 

 

Sherlock was speechless. Somewhere in John’s speech he had lowered his mug to the table, thanks god, or he might have dropped it. He watched John watch him, unable to think of what to say.

 

 

John waited several minutes, then nodded and got up from the table. He was behind him when Sherlock finally found his voice.

 

 

“I’m sorry.” He turned to see John stopped with his foot on the bottom step to the next floor. “I loved you so much that I was stupid. I let Mycroft convince me not to tell you. I let you down. I let you suffer. I should have told you.”

 

 

John turned to look at him.

 

 

“The thought of you is what kept me alive while I was gone. I should have known it would be the same for you.”

 

 

“One word. That’s all I would have needed.” John sobbed, tears in his eyes.

 

 

Sherlock nodded. He stepped into his personal space and took John’s face into his hands. “I’m sorry.” He kissed John on the forehead, “I’m sorry,” then on both cheeks. “I’m sorry.” He hovered over John’s lips until he felt John’s hands fist in the front of his shirt, pulling him towards him. The kiss was fierce and biting but quickly turned into a slow passion. When they pulled back, both of them were panting.

 

 

“You better be.” John whispered.

 

 

They both laughed and held each other close. An hour later, they lay in their bed, John’s head pillowed on Sherlock’s chest. John had told him about his empathy and how it had foiled Sherlock’s plan. Sherlock had always wondered why John seemed so tuned into his moods and now it all made sense.

 

 

The guilt of driving John mad sat heavy in his chest. It would for some time. But they were together, and together they could do anything.


End file.
